Fifty pages into the Japanese book Shakespeare and Baseball, and I've discovered that baseball's roots lie in a small village in England, where maidens milking cows often threw pepples at the neighbouring farmers as they passed on by.
I think.
The danger when attempting to read anything above the alphabet in a foreign language is that there's a great possibility, if not probability, of totally misunderstanding what you've read.
The first part of the book traces the origins of baseball itself from varius games involving hard round objects that were created by peasants in England. Now I'm at the part where British folks are coming over on the Mayflower, and introducing various forms of these sports to the Yanks. And, at some point, the game of baseball as we know it was created; I just haven't got to that part yet.
How all this ties into Shakespeare, I have no freakin' clue.
But the author seems to be having a good time. As I mentioned before, when the Japanese pursue something, they pursue it, and the author mentions how he was invited to a modern-day simulation of one of the old, British-style games, this one reenacted by folks in seventeenth century outfits somewhere in New England. And, sure enough, there's the author, in a black-and-white photo, grinning broadly, surrounded by fellow sporting enthusiasts. He is pursuing his passion, and it shows.
What I like about attempting to read a foreign language is that you feel like you earn every word you comprehend. Every idea that seems to make even a fair bit of sense by the time you finally reach the end of a sentence is a cause for internal celebration. Unless I'm reading science stuff, or math stuff, reading English itself rarely feels like work; it's a groove I get into, period. But reading Japanese is so damn hard, and takes so damn long, that I feel almost, well, proud of finishing a page. It's actually quite a feeling, becoming a little bit literate after years of work. I still move my lips when I read Japanese, but that, too, is something I enjoy; I feel myself trying, and in this modern, media-blitzed age of inertia, actually feeling something is not a quality one should dismiss so easily.
So, I'll keep plugging away at it. I'm gradually realizing that this is a book about baseball, more than Shakespeare; scanning the author's credits, I see that he's also written Japanese books about Babe Ruth and the old Negro Leagues, so that's obviously his forte. Yet I can sense where the book is leading; an examination of how games and stories migrated, shifted, changed forms.
Like the reading of the language itself, that's only my 'sense' of things, and the book could quite likely change course and go in a radically different direction.
If it does, I might not understand completely where it's going, but getting lost in translation along the way will be half the fun.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Saturday, April 05, 2008
WAITING
Sometimes a year or two will go by when I don't run any longer than an hour, max. My usual routine is to do fifty to sixty minutes, six days a week, resting on Sundays. (Even God took a break that day, so I sure as hell can.) For the past couple of weeks I've upped my ante and started running two hours on Sundays, because I'm starting to understand that the longer you go, the more you understand. And the more you endure, the clearer you feel. And the more you wait, the sweeter the fruit.
From the age of fourteen to twenty-one, my running routine was simple: three 'maintenance' runs a week; one or two speedworkouts; one long run. And one day off. For the past ten years, there have been a good many months where I didn't do much running at all, but I've gotten back into it in the past few years, minus the speedwork; without the motivation of a race to, um, motivate me, I find putting in the time for endless repeats less than enticing. Because I had a stress fracture in my right foot during university, and a wrecked knee while trying to train for a marathon years ago, I'm more cautious when I run. I'm older. In short, I'm slower.
Running one hour is an effort; running two hours starts to point towards something else. What that is, I'm not sure. Pehaps if I ever run a marathon, I'll find out. (I'm tempted to do so almost every single year, but I also spent most of my adolescence running cross-country and track races all fall, spring and summer long; I don't feel the urge to 'race' or 'beat' anyone anymore, so why race?)
Running long runs gives me time to think; it forces me to focus on the moment, because what lies ahead is tiring and sweaty; it makes me think about how my body feels, and why. It grounds me.
Long runs are also perfect for the aging human specimen. When you're young, you're in a rush, so speed suits the teenage runner; you want what you want, now. Getting older, you realize that the best things come to those who last. Japan's most famous baseball player, Sadaharu Oh, has a wonderful autobiography whose English version concludes with his credo as a hitter, and a human: Sometimes you have to wait. The batter can do nothing but wait for the ball to come to him; he can't hurry it forward. He has to wait.
I've come to believe that waiting is everything. You work now towards what will come later on. You won't see the fruits of your success, if any ever arrive, until many moons rise and fall. You leave your house to hit the roads in the early morning chill so that you can return once the sun has assumed its proper place. When you have a set goal of two hours to bide your time, there's nowhere to rush towards, no destination to arrive at. You simply have to wait. The achievement, if any arises, arises from your patience.
And, by waiting, you can exist in a different sphere. Running long distances at whatever speed I feel like has taught me that some things can't be changed. From this exertion emerges the metaphor for life we all seek: you will feel pain, and discomfort, and joy, and eventually it will all come to an end, and in the process you will find what needed to be found (or not -- perhaps suffering is all that awaits) , but two hours is two hours (or life is life) so there's no point hurrying. It will come at the proper point, that time will. 'It' being whatever it is you're looking for.
By waiting, you can start to see the patterns more vividly. The moon, without fail, grudgingly gives way to the sun, and, recently, as my feet come to a stop and my chest rises and falls in a familiar, sweaty arc, I often realize that spring has suddenly emerged from the ruins of the night while I paced my way through familiar motions. I didn't even know I had been waiting for a new season to emerge, but it has, and my daily, montonously physical tangents somehow make the whole ancient process new, even vital.
From the age of fourteen to twenty-one, my running routine was simple: three 'maintenance' runs a week; one or two speedworkouts; one long run. And one day off. For the past ten years, there have been a good many months where I didn't do much running at all, but I've gotten back into it in the past few years, minus the speedwork; without the motivation of a race to, um, motivate me, I find putting in the time for endless repeats less than enticing. Because I had a stress fracture in my right foot during university, and a wrecked knee while trying to train for a marathon years ago, I'm more cautious when I run. I'm older. In short, I'm slower.
Running one hour is an effort; running two hours starts to point towards something else. What that is, I'm not sure. Pehaps if I ever run a marathon, I'll find out. (I'm tempted to do so almost every single year, but I also spent most of my adolescence running cross-country and track races all fall, spring and summer long; I don't feel the urge to 'race' or 'beat' anyone anymore, so why race?)
Running long runs gives me time to think; it forces me to focus on the moment, because what lies ahead is tiring and sweaty; it makes me think about how my body feels, and why. It grounds me.
Long runs are also perfect for the aging human specimen. When you're young, you're in a rush, so speed suits the teenage runner; you want what you want, now. Getting older, you realize that the best things come to those who last. Japan's most famous baseball player, Sadaharu Oh, has a wonderful autobiography whose English version concludes with his credo as a hitter, and a human: Sometimes you have to wait. The batter can do nothing but wait for the ball to come to him; he can't hurry it forward. He has to wait.
I've come to believe that waiting is everything. You work now towards what will come later on. You won't see the fruits of your success, if any ever arrive, until many moons rise and fall. You leave your house to hit the roads in the early morning chill so that you can return once the sun has assumed its proper place. When you have a set goal of two hours to bide your time, there's nowhere to rush towards, no destination to arrive at. You simply have to wait. The achievement, if any arises, arises from your patience.
And, by waiting, you can exist in a different sphere. Running long distances at whatever speed I feel like has taught me that some things can't be changed. From this exertion emerges the metaphor for life we all seek: you will feel pain, and discomfort, and joy, and eventually it will all come to an end, and in the process you will find what needed to be found (or not -- perhaps suffering is all that awaits) , but two hours is two hours (or life is life) so there's no point hurrying. It will come at the proper point, that time will. 'It' being whatever it is you're looking for.
By waiting, you can start to see the patterns more vividly. The moon, without fail, grudgingly gives way to the sun, and, recently, as my feet come to a stop and my chest rises and falls in a familiar, sweaty arc, I often realize that spring has suddenly emerged from the ruins of the night while I paced my way through familiar motions. I didn't even know I had been waiting for a new season to emerge, but it has, and my daily, montonously physical tangents somehow make the whole ancient process new, even vital.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
THE BARD AND THE BAT
Wander around any bookstore in Japan and you'll soon realize that when the Japanese find a niche, they niche the hell out of it. Any hobby, interest, fetish known to man, the Japanese have written a book on it. An illustrated one. Complete with a separate guide to the illustrated book. I'm used to seeing all sorts of odd, eccentric, downright strange tomes on any number of subjects gracing their extensive array of bookshelves, but even I was surprised yesterday to find one that seemed to coincide precisely, oddly enough, with what I was looking for.
Trying to improve my meagre Japanese, I've been reading a page or two at a time from various Japanese books. (If I were to commit myself to finishing only one book, it would take me, most likely, months, so I delude myself by telling myself that the real reason I'm switching from book to book is so that I can experience different styles, unusual words, new Chinese characters, etc.) Lately I'v been reading from books written about the nature of Chinese patriotism; why kanji (Chinese characters in Japanese form) is an essential part of the Japanese language and culture; why Japanese baseball is a distinctly more satisfying brand of the sport than its American counterpart; why Shakespeare has lessons to be learned for the Japanese heart and soul. I read a page or two here and there, switch books, delve into another topic; completely opposite of how I read in English, where I read only book at a time, fiction or non-fiction.
So yesterday I'm poking around Kinokuniya bookstore in Shinjuku, browsing through the English section and the Japanese section. There's a few books in English on Shakespeare I've been meaning to read for ages, but their prices were a wee bit, um, pricey. In the Japanese section, I noticed endless reams of books on China and Korea, but I decided to try for a little more light-hearted fair, so I found the 'sports' section and saw what there was to see.
One of my Creative Writing teachers always told us that if we wanted to get published, write a book about baseball (Or, in Canada, write a book about hockey.) The Japanese have obviously followed his advice, as there seems to be just as many, if not more, books about baseball here than in the States. Memoirs of coaches, players, fans; instructional books on how to play, how to improve, how to excel. Behind-the-scenes tomes about the people who run the statdiums, and the faithful who bleed for their teams.
And one book that knocked me out for its sheer unlikeliness.
As I've stated before, whenever I'm searching in vain around a bookstore for a title to read, I remain absolutely convicned that there's one, one, ONE book waiting that is destined for me and nobody else. (Or so I tell myself.)
Yesterday that book was: Shakespeare and Baseball.
That's right.
Shakespeare and Baseball, by Kazuo Sayama.
I thought I'd seen everything, but this takes the cake. I've been interested in Shakespeare for a while, and baseball books, more than baseball itself, has become a bit of a hobby, so you'd think I'd be keen on snatching this book. And I did. But I still can't get over it: I mean, what's the connection?!?
The cover shows the famous shot of old Billy with a baseball flinging down towards us to his left. Below the baseball is an old English ship destined, I'm guessing, to sail for the States. So perhaps this book is a chronicle of how baseball evolved from cricket? Or is it life lessons to be learned from the bard and the ball?
Not a clue.
Flipping through the book, I see pictures of the author in England, pointing at some historical sight or another.
Shakespeare. And baseball. What a combination.
So, I'll give it a go. One slow page at a time. And since I doubt it'll ever be translated into English, I'll post a blog or two about what I find when I get a chance.
That's what I love about the Japanese. Just when I'm thinking: Who the hell would write a book about Shakespeare and baseball, I realize: Now that's a book I'd want to read.
The Japanese know, and aren't afraid to admit: There's nothing stranger under their sun than themselves. (And the rest of us.) You find what you love, and go deep. Even if your own peculiar journey takes you from Elizabethean England to the pitcher's mound. (Or maybe especially for that reason.)
Trying to improve my meagre Japanese, I've been reading a page or two at a time from various Japanese books. (If I were to commit myself to finishing only one book, it would take me, most likely, months, so I delude myself by telling myself that the real reason I'm switching from book to book is so that I can experience different styles, unusual words, new Chinese characters, etc.) Lately I'v been reading from books written about the nature of Chinese patriotism; why kanji (Chinese characters in Japanese form) is an essential part of the Japanese language and culture; why Japanese baseball is a distinctly more satisfying brand of the sport than its American counterpart; why Shakespeare has lessons to be learned for the Japanese heart and soul. I read a page or two here and there, switch books, delve into another topic; completely opposite of how I read in English, where I read only book at a time, fiction or non-fiction.
So yesterday I'm poking around Kinokuniya bookstore in Shinjuku, browsing through the English section and the Japanese section. There's a few books in English on Shakespeare I've been meaning to read for ages, but their prices were a wee bit, um, pricey. In the Japanese section, I noticed endless reams of books on China and Korea, but I decided to try for a little more light-hearted fair, so I found the 'sports' section and saw what there was to see.
One of my Creative Writing teachers always told us that if we wanted to get published, write a book about baseball (Or, in Canada, write a book about hockey.) The Japanese have obviously followed his advice, as there seems to be just as many, if not more, books about baseball here than in the States. Memoirs of coaches, players, fans; instructional books on how to play, how to improve, how to excel. Behind-the-scenes tomes about the people who run the statdiums, and the faithful who bleed for their teams.
And one book that knocked me out for its sheer unlikeliness.
As I've stated before, whenever I'm searching in vain around a bookstore for a title to read, I remain absolutely convicned that there's one, one, ONE book waiting that is destined for me and nobody else. (Or so I tell myself.)
Yesterday that book was: Shakespeare and Baseball.
That's right.
Shakespeare and Baseball, by Kazuo Sayama.
I thought I'd seen everything, but this takes the cake. I've been interested in Shakespeare for a while, and baseball books, more than baseball itself, has become a bit of a hobby, so you'd think I'd be keen on snatching this book. And I did. But I still can't get over it: I mean, what's the connection?!?
The cover shows the famous shot of old Billy with a baseball flinging down towards us to his left. Below the baseball is an old English ship destined, I'm guessing, to sail for the States. So perhaps this book is a chronicle of how baseball evolved from cricket? Or is it life lessons to be learned from the bard and the ball?
Not a clue.
Flipping through the book, I see pictures of the author in England, pointing at some historical sight or another.
Shakespeare. And baseball. What a combination.
So, I'll give it a go. One slow page at a time. And since I doubt it'll ever be translated into English, I'll post a blog or two about what I find when I get a chance.
That's what I love about the Japanese. Just when I'm thinking: Who the hell would write a book about Shakespeare and baseball, I realize: Now that's a book I'd want to read.
The Japanese know, and aren't afraid to admit: There's nothing stranger under their sun than themselves. (And the rest of us.) You find what you love, and go deep. Even if your own peculiar journey takes you from Elizabethean England to the pitcher's mound. (Or maybe especially for that reason.)
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
A LITTLE OFF CENTER
I recently read a newspaper story about a young Japanese man who makes cheese in a small town in France. He used to work on a farm in northern Japan, but he didn't like the way that they went about their business; they didn't treat the cows, or the cheese, properly. One day while watching the Tour de France cycling race on TV he saw the riders glide through a small village. The cows ignored the riders, but the Japanese man watched the cows. They looked happy. The life seemed peaceful. He went to France to take a cheesemaking course, then came back to Japan for a few years to work at a Toyota plant to save enough money to move to France for good. Eventually, he did. And now he works by himself making cheese in a tiny French town, and is considered one of the best workers in the business.
Something about this story moved me.
Japan is a notoriously group-oriented culture. To decide to just take off, move to France, make some cheese -- not an easy decision, I'm guessing. Yet, the ones who don't fit in here, TRULY don't fit in. So some of them move on and find their own life.
How much of our decisions are based on what those around us are doing? How much of our lives do we live drifting when we should be gliding?
One advantage of living abroad is that you can't attempt to do what those around you are doing, because they are of that culture, while you are merely in it. To attempt to blend in is a fool's game.
Eccentricity is often simply doing that which others would not normally do. And those 'others', invariably, are your family, neighbours, peers. Every so often, living in Asia, studying Japanese, I feel I'm on a tangent, and I wonder where the main road lies.
But now I think of that Japanese farmer in the fields of France, watching his cows, then going back inside to make his cheese. He has found his main road, a little off center.
Something about this story moved me.
Japan is a notoriously group-oriented culture. To decide to just take off, move to France, make some cheese -- not an easy decision, I'm guessing. Yet, the ones who don't fit in here, TRULY don't fit in. So some of them move on and find their own life.
How much of our decisions are based on what those around us are doing? How much of our lives do we live drifting when we should be gliding?
One advantage of living abroad is that you can't attempt to do what those around you are doing, because they are of that culture, while you are merely in it. To attempt to blend in is a fool's game.
Eccentricity is often simply doing that which others would not normally do. And those 'others', invariably, are your family, neighbours, peers. Every so often, living in Asia, studying Japanese, I feel I'm on a tangent, and I wonder where the main road lies.
But now I think of that Japanese farmer in the fields of France, watching his cows, then going back inside to make his cheese. He has found his main road, a little off center.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
CLOSELY AND CLEARLY AT BOTH SIDES
Last week, while walking down Session Road in downtown Baguio, a city in the northern Philippines, a well-dressed lady stopped me and urged me to attend a celebration of the birth of Christ, gently but insistently pushing an information pamphlet into my hands.
For a moment I was confused, given that this was mid-March, and Christ`s birthday, as far as I know, is usually celebrated on December 25, but I quickly realized that this lady was a Jehovah's Witness, and they do things differently, those Witnesses do. Like celebrating Christ's birthday in April, I think. (I used to walk to Dalewood Senior Public School each day with a neighbourhood kid who was a Jehovah's Witness, and I remember being absolutely astounded when he told me that his family not only didn't celebrate Christmas, or Easter, but they didn't do birthdays, either.)
I thanked the lady and took the pamphlet and stuffed it into my bag. I actually felt a little bit sorry for her, because the Philippines is an overwhelmingly Catholic country, so any other branches of Christianity must have a hard time converting anybody who is already a Christian, albeit one of a different sect. (I feel the same way whenever I see the American Mormons wandering the streets of Baguio with their Filipino brethren each and every day. I would think that converting non-Christians would be a hell of a lot easier than trying to convert people who already believe ninety percent of what you believe...) With things to do, places to go, people to see, the usual stuff of life, I soon forgot about the lady and the pamphlet.
Until the other day.
For here I was, newly entrenched in my apartment in Fujisawa, Japan for another few months, and what should I find in my mailbox but a pamphlet. From the Jehovah's Witnesses. And not just any pamphlet, but the same one that the lady had given me in the Philippines, with the same photo, along with an identical layout -- the only difference being that the text was written in Japanese, as opposed to English.
The surprise is not that there are Jehovah`s Witnesses everywhere. I already knew that. (They even come to your door on Sunday mornings in Japna, too.) But hopping from country to country, no matter how often I do it, always creates a strange, almost mystical sense of disorientation within myself. One morning I'm haggling with a cabbie at the Pasay bus station in central Manila, the Philippines, trying to bargain my way into a reasonable ride at an affordable rate to the airport, and then ten hours later a Japanese gentlemen at Fujisawa Station in Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan, seeing the map in my hand and the confused look on my face, asks if I need any help. And this is the same day. And it's the same world. While the taxi driver I had met that morning was still in the middle of his daily shift, I had flown thousands of miles away and was in a new land, speaking a different language, shivering in a much colder climate.
My brain can never get used to this.
I soon start to see the world as large, divided, a gigantic series of Connect-Four games whose pieces never seem to align into a certifiable row that links us all and makes any kind of sense. (And if you don't know what Connect-Four even is, then I'm older than I think.)
But then, laying in bed, listening to the sounds of the trucks barreling down the central roadway aligned exactly alongside my new apartment, I think of that pamphlet. It made me feel strangely wanted, that pamphlet did. I don't know why. I have no interest in becoming a Witness, but suddenly the world became very, very small once again. Borders, boundaries, languages were erased. I could concretely link the `me` of two weeks ago with the `me` of today. Some kind of gap had been bridged, with me straddling the middle, looking closely and clearly at both sides.
For a moment I was confused, given that this was mid-March, and Christ`s birthday, as far as I know, is usually celebrated on December 25, but I quickly realized that this lady was a Jehovah's Witness, and they do things differently, those Witnesses do. Like celebrating Christ's birthday in April, I think. (I used to walk to Dalewood Senior Public School each day with a neighbourhood kid who was a Jehovah's Witness, and I remember being absolutely astounded when he told me that his family not only didn't celebrate Christmas, or Easter, but they didn't do birthdays, either.)
I thanked the lady and took the pamphlet and stuffed it into my bag. I actually felt a little bit sorry for her, because the Philippines is an overwhelmingly Catholic country, so any other branches of Christianity must have a hard time converting anybody who is already a Christian, albeit one of a different sect. (I feel the same way whenever I see the American Mormons wandering the streets of Baguio with their Filipino brethren each and every day. I would think that converting non-Christians would be a hell of a lot easier than trying to convert people who already believe ninety percent of what you believe...) With things to do, places to go, people to see, the usual stuff of life, I soon forgot about the lady and the pamphlet.
Until the other day.
For here I was, newly entrenched in my apartment in Fujisawa, Japan for another few months, and what should I find in my mailbox but a pamphlet. From the Jehovah's Witnesses. And not just any pamphlet, but the same one that the lady had given me in the Philippines, with the same photo, along with an identical layout -- the only difference being that the text was written in Japanese, as opposed to English.
The surprise is not that there are Jehovah`s Witnesses everywhere. I already knew that. (They even come to your door on Sunday mornings in Japna, too.) But hopping from country to country, no matter how often I do it, always creates a strange, almost mystical sense of disorientation within myself. One morning I'm haggling with a cabbie at the Pasay bus station in central Manila, the Philippines, trying to bargain my way into a reasonable ride at an affordable rate to the airport, and then ten hours later a Japanese gentlemen at Fujisawa Station in Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan, seeing the map in my hand and the confused look on my face, asks if I need any help. And this is the same day. And it's the same world. While the taxi driver I had met that morning was still in the middle of his daily shift, I had flown thousands of miles away and was in a new land, speaking a different language, shivering in a much colder climate.
My brain can never get used to this.
I soon start to see the world as large, divided, a gigantic series of Connect-Four games whose pieces never seem to align into a certifiable row that links us all and makes any kind of sense. (And if you don't know what Connect-Four even is, then I'm older than I think.)
But then, laying in bed, listening to the sounds of the trucks barreling down the central roadway aligned exactly alongside my new apartment, I think of that pamphlet. It made me feel strangely wanted, that pamphlet did. I don't know why. I have no interest in becoming a Witness, but suddenly the world became very, very small once again. Borders, boundaries, languages were erased. I could concretely link the `me` of two weeks ago with the `me` of today. Some kind of gap had been bridged, with me straddling the middle, looking closely and clearly at both sides.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
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